Wishing and Dreaming
by Lily Zen
Summary: Alec wishes...while she dreams... --Alec x Other, Lime, Original Character Warning-- Takes place sometime during Season 2. Reviews are welcomed and appreciated.


Wishing and Dreaming

Pairing: Alec x Other

Rating: R

Writer: Lily Zen

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Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Angel. I do own X5-501.

Notes: This is sort of a prequel to my soon-to-be-published fic entitled _Lady Jezebel, Lady Jesus_. This is kind of a vague, first-person musing from Alec's point of view. However, at the end of the vignette, the point of view switches to 501, and—this is where it gets really confusing—alternates between a third and first-person point of view. This is intentional. Without giving too much away about her character, which becomes prominent in LJLJ, let's just say that 501 is a bit fractured at the moment.

*

I don't let people get that close to me. Sure, people like me a lot, and I'm always friendly—especially to the fairer sex, but hardly anybody gets close enough to see the real me. It's just not practical with the times being what they are. Transgenics aren't thought of highly, unless you're a groupie, and don't let them fool you, there _are_ groupies.

Still, it's just a whole lot safer if people don't get too close. I've got Josh, and sometimes I think I've got Maxie—jury's still out on that one though. They're the ones who know me best, who've seen the furthest behind my mask. All that most people see when they look at me is a smart-assed, womanizing bastard only out for himself.

Max and Josh know better than that.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I bothered to let someone in. Then I think about Rachel and how part of me died with her, not once, but twice, and how I thought it would kill me, and vow never to do it again.

I loved Rachel, I really did. My first love. It was the first time I'd ever experienced something like that, and I didn't know what it was until it was too late. 'Love' wasn't in the curriculum at Manticore. Hell, 'emotions' weren't in the curriculum, period. I was completely unprepared to deal with her death.

Still, I can't help but wonder. It's not that I don't want it, because I do. There's almost nothing I like more that women. Except maybe money. So yeah, I think about what it would be like to go home and find a woman that's mine-all-mine waiting. Maybe she'd be cooking dinner when I walked in the door, or sprawled on the couch reading a book.

She would be beautiful—of course, she'd be beautiful! This is me we're talking about here! I prefer blondes, but for some reason that's not what I picture. I see long, dark hair the color of India Ink and a quiet smile that makes my heart feel tight in my chest the second she looks up from her text.

I can almost hear the sound of her voice as she welcomes me home and tells me that dinner will be ready in a few. I'd respond with 'great, 'cause I'm starving,' and watch as she rolls her eyes playfully. 'You're always starving,' she'd say with an amused smile while she dog-ears her page and gets up.

She's pretty tall for a woman, a good five-foot-eight, and leggy, and I can't help but admire her cream-colored skin as she comes toward me with a wicked little grin. I've already got my jacket and shoes off, so she balls the fabric of my t-shirt in her hands—slender hands with long, elegant fingers and nails that are moderately long with neon green paint on them. Why neon green? Truthfully, I'm not sure. Maybe because I like the color on my Duke? Shut up, it's my subconscious, leave me alone.

Anyway, I can just see her tugging me closer, and I love that hint of her aggression coming to the foreground. Like me, she's more than she seems. People look at her and underestimate what she's capable of because she's ridiculously beautiful. She raises up on her toes a bit, and I use my hands on her waist to balance her automatically. We're eye-level now, and I can feel myself getting lost in her eyes—eyes that aren't one particular color, but a mixture of gray and violet and tiny little flecks of green. In my mind, I compare it to fluorite.

The air is thick with anticipation and need, and just before we kiss she whispers, 'Missed you.' My patience breaks and I slant my mouth over hers. The kiss is long and deep. There is no fight for dominance at the moment—it's an equal give and take. She knows just what to do to make me feel it down to my toes, and the small noises she's making let me know that I'm having a similar effect on her.

A small beeping noise is heard—the oven timer going off, and she breaks with kiss with a quick nip to my lower lip. 'Dinner's done,' she says a little breathily, and I smirk.

'How about dessert first?' I ask her, and she raises an eyebrow.

'How about we save it 'til after dinner? You're not the only one who's starving, y'know.'

'Deal.'

I can see us eating dinner together quietly, talking about our respective days. It's almost like a Norman Rockwell painting, but he wouldn't have been able to picture such a beauty as hers. Dinner would probably be something simple. This is, after all, still post-Pulse Seattle. So maybe baked chicken or a casserole. She drinks beer with dinner, and it makes me smile because she's got her pinky raised up.

'Shut up, I'm one classy broad,' she teases when she notices and nudges me gently. We rinse our dishes off when dinner's over, and she's about to wash them, but I tug her away from the sink. 'Leave 'em. We can do them later.'

The passion's back, and we start losing clothes on the way to the bedroom. The sex is great—her body's taut and eager, and I'm always ready to go. We know each other well-enough that if I want to I can make her come in twenty-one seconds. The mood's not right for it that night though, so I take her slowly and for a long time. As usual, she gives as good as she gets, and it's not long 'til she's coming on my dick and I'm blowing my load inside of her.

We lay together afterwards, me spooning her, contentment suffusing both of us. She's running her fingertips up and down my arm, soothing and arousing me at the same time. I move her hair to the side, and kiss her shoulder, up to her neck. I nuzzle up behind her ear where her scent is incredibly strong and pull it down into my lungs—honey, flowers, sunshine, and female.

She knows what I'm doing and her shoulders shake as she chuckles to herself.

In retaliation, my mouth closes over her barcode, teeth sinking in ever-so-slightly. She stops what she's doing and shudders as I let out a low growl into her skin. Then I release her with a kiss over the subtle imprint of my teeth, and her breath releases. I smile then because I know what I'm doing too.

'Alec.' My name's never sounded better. She moves my hand down to her wet center, gliding over her skin, and she moans when I take the initiative to stimulate her clit.

'Please.' Again, I've never loved that word more.

So it begins again, and I take her from behind, placing wet, heated kisses along a barcode tattoo that reads '501.'

…As you can see, I've thought about what it would be like to have someone in great detail. I have a very vivid imagination. But I doubt that it will ever come to pass.

*

_Somewhere in Spain _

She's dreaming.

She knows she's dreaming but she doesn't care—she likes this dream and would be content to stay in it forever.

She's in an unfamiliar apartment.

Dinner is cooking in the oven while she lounges on the couch in a pair of black shorts and a tank top. She doesn't look like she normally does—all done up to perfection, professional, monochromatic. Her nails are lime green in color when normally she'd have a French manicure. She likes it and reminds herself to thank O.C. again for insisting.

In her hands is a book—A Streetcar Named Desire. She loves to read the classics, so Sandemann let her take some of her favorites with her.

She can smell him before he even walks in the door—that scent that was totally unique to him. It made her lower muscles clench in an automatic response to the lust that flared in her. He was right on time, even though he never was home at a set time.

He walks in the door and hangs his jacket up on the hooks she'd installed in the miniscule foyer, and takes off his shoes. She'd gotten sick of him leaving his clothes all over the apartment—the same day she had put up the hooks, she'd also bought him a hamper, and explained in no uncertain terms that he was to make proper use of them both. She remembered the way he had simply smiled and kissed her cheek, then admitted 'it's cute that you're nesting.'

She smiles at him and says, 'Welcome home, stranger. Dinner will be ready in a little bit.' He grins at me and I'm surprised I haven't melted into the couch yet. 'Great, 'cause I'm starving!'

I feel my eyes roll heavenward and I say, 'You're always starving.' But I'm still smiling as I dog-ear my page and get up. I can feel his eyes on me like a tangible thing as I walk towards him, and when I reach him, I grasp his t-shirt in my hand and stand up on my tippy-toes. He supports me, like always.

I tell him I missed him, and he kisses me, but it's more like we're making love with our mouths. I love it. If I didn't need to breathe, eat, or pee, I would insist on doing it all the time.

The timer sounds, and we eat dinner companionably, talking throughout. At one point I catch him laughing at my mannerisms. Sometimes I can't help it though—I've had to do it for so long that it's hard to break the habit. We rinse our dishes, and he convinces me to leave them until later. I comply because, frankly, I'm just as eager as he is. Being mated is a compelling force, and sometimes I am powerless to resist. Then again, so is he. At least we're in the same boat.

We make love in our bedroom—some things had changed in there too since I'd begun staying with him, including the wall color. It's cheerful buttery-yellow color had surprised Alec at first—she hadn't asked first, just done it on a whim. Then he surprised her by telling her that he liked it.

As we make love, for the second time, I find myself grounded yet again. He's always grounded me, keeps me locked in reality, and I am more grateful for it than words can express.

…As her eyes flicker open, she sighs and tries not to feel sad as the mental fog that envelops her mind rolls in once again. She loses track of time, of reality, and dreams to herself of a day when she'll be made real again.

*FIN*

There it is. It's kind of melancholy, but I like it and I hope you did as well. Please review!

Oh, and be on the lookout for _Lady Jezebel, Lady Jesus_. It's an AU taking place after Dark Angel: Skin Game, and will be rated NC-17 (M). Please don't read it if graphic sex offends you.


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